


sometime around midnight

by explosivesky



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, midnight in paris AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:35:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28775427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosivesky/pseuds/explosivesky
Summary: He struggles between making poetry out of her body and telling her the truth: it’s a difficult combination, needing her to know and needing it to be beautiful. She says, breathless in wonderment, “Oh, the amount of things that had to happen in order for me to be standing here at all."
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald, background vastra/jenny, side amy/rory, side rose/ten
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	sometime around midnight

The bell near the front door interrupts the unusually quiet afternoon, alerting Clara of the family’s return. She’d been basking in the welcomed silence since the children had left that morning, save for the sound of her fingers clacking against keys and the rustling of pages, marking chapters in books. Angie and Artie pile into the living room, chattering loudly; George is shaking his head behind them.

“Hello, hello,” Clara greets the children, laying her novel on the table and shifting her laptop off her knees. “How was the museum?”

“Oh, Clara, you wouldn’t believe it,” Artie shares enthusiastically. “You should have come with us!”

She smiles. “I wish I could have, but I’m absolutely knackered,” she replies, rubbing her neck. “Been working all day.”

Angie drops her bag on the floor. “It was quite weird, actually,” she states slowly, staring at Clara with an odd expression on her face. “There was a painting of a woman who looked exactly like you.”

Clara’s eyebrows raise slightly. “Was there?” She asks, feigning interest.

“Yes,” Artie chimes in. “It was called ‘The Impossible Girl.’ Angie tried to take a picture of it, but she got in trouble.”

“Shut up, no I didn’t.”

Clara interrupts to stop the beginning of a fight. “I’ll have to check it out sometime,” she humours them, though she’s internally not that intrigued; resemblance isn’t hard to manufacture in art. Angie rolls her eyes, taking off her coat, unpleasant as ever. She storms up the stairs without sparing them a glance back.

George, thankfully, changes the subject. “How’re the lesson plans going, Clara?” He asks, gesturing to the disheveled stacks of papers spread across the coffee table.

She sighs exasperatedly, leaning back against the couch. “Absolute rubbish,” she replies, hands covering her face. “I’ve got twelve more books to re-read before the summer’s over and we head home – still haven’t decided which ones I’m going to teach.”

George frowns sympathetically. “What’s the curriculum?”

“Early twentieth century – fiction, nonfiction, and poetry,” she says. She ticks off a list of authors on her fingers. “I’m thinking Jack Harkness and River Song for fiction, Rose Tyler for poetry, and the Doctor for nonfiction.”

“That sounds like a good list,” he approves. “Classics indeed.”

“Let’s hope the board agrees with you.”

He gives her an amused look. “The Doctor, though, really?” He says dubiously. “Writing about a girl with your name? That’ll make for an interesting discussion.”

She grimaces. “That’s partly where my hesitation comes from,” she admits. “I hate to imagine the jokes I’ll be the center of.”

Artie asks in confusion, “The _Doctor_? Are you teaching medicine, Clara?”

She laughs. “It’s a penname,” she explains. “It’s just the name he wrote his novels under. Nobody knows his real one.”

“Wow,” Artie responds, awed. “That’s so cool. It’s like a mystery.”

“Exactly,” Clara affirms. She stretches, popping her joints back into place, and stands up. “I need a break. Do we have plans for dinner, George?”

He’s hanging up his jacket in the hall closet; it’s damp from the Paris summer rain. “I thought I’d just cook pasta,” he calls. “That alright?”

“Perfect,” Clara says, checking the clock. “Artie, be a dear and tell Angie tea’s at half past.”

He obediently scampers up the stairs. She gives her work one last tired look and turns to join George in the kitchen. The classics can wait.

–

Dinner is a regular affair; Artie talks about sights he’d still like to see in the city and Angie brings up the catacombs, attempting to scare him, whispering about walls made of bones; George quiets them both down and shifts the subject to more casual topics, inquiring about their favourite works at the museum they’d visited earlier that day. Fortunately, neither of them bring up the portrait of Clara’s doppleganger again.

He’s putting dishes away when Clara walks into the kitchen an hour later, keys jangling in her hand. He glances at her curiously. “Going somewhere, Clara?”

She grimaces, tying up her hair messily. “Hoping a late-night walk will clear my head,” she replies, grabbing her light coat off its hook near the door. “It’s been a stressful day.”

He nods in understanding. “Be careful,” he warns good-naturedly. “I’ll probably be asleep when you get back, so make sure you lock up.”

She offers him a reassuring smile. “I will,”she says, fingers wrapping around the doorknob. “Goodnight.”

–

She follows her usual route around the city centre and stops by a small pub for a drink; she calls her dad while she’s there, checking in – she’s never been out out of the country for this long, and she’s still a month out. It’s getting late, but she can’t bring herself to go home (or, what they’re calling home for now: their rented vacation condominium in Paris) because home is glaring pages of work and headaches waiting to pound against her skull.

She decides on a stroll instead; she wanders, taking in the grandeur of the city – she doesn’t think she’ll ever grow tired of it; the lights on the Eiffel Tower, the peak of Notre Dame, the pure beauty of the carefully-sculpted architecture. By the time she glances at the time on her phone it’s nearly half past eleven, and she decides she’d better turn back – not for her own safety, as there are plenty of people out and about on a Friday night – but because a draft of her syllabus is due Monday morning and she’s got to come up with _something._

She ends up on a winding path that curves just before a beautiful fountain and clock, and she stops to admire it, only for a moment—

A loud honking startles her out of her reverie, voices shouting from behind her. She spins quickly, taken aback, and blinks at what she sees.

An old cars comes rumbling up the road, and a woman is hanging out the window, beckoning her over. She has vivid red hair and her smile is wide as she gestures.

Clara glances around her; she’s the only one in sight. She takes a few hesitant steps forward. “Me?” She calls to the girl.

The other woman nods, laughing. “Come on!” She says excitedly. “You shouldn’t be out all by yourself! There are parties to attend!”

Clara feels herself grinning in response – the girl’s enthusiasm is contagious. It occurs to her that they might be headed to a decadent era-themed gathering, and her curiosity gets the best of her; she’s heard all about them, but never been able to attend one. The woman’s accent is obviously Scottish – Clara figures they’re probably tourists and approaches the car.

“It’s alright?” She questions. “If I come?”

The girl throws the door open impatiently. “Of course! Come on, come on.”

Clara clambers over her, falling into the open seat across from her. There’s a young man to the side of the woman, and he offers Clara and sincere smile. They’re both dressed lavishly in dated clothing – they look stunning.

“Off we trot!” The ginger girl signals the driver, and then they’re off. She adjusts herself in her seat, grinning.

The boy leans forward. “Sorry about that,” he tells her. “She’s had a bit to drink. I promise you’re not being abducted.” He smiles. “I’m Rory, by the way; Rory Williams.”

He extends his hand. She slips her fingers into his and says, “I’m Clara. Oswald.”

He bends and kisses her hand, and then gestures to the woman beside him. “And this is my wife, Amelia Pond.”

“Amy’s fine,” she interrupts, nudging Rory. “It’s good to meet you, Clara. I hope you don’t mind my wrangling you along with us.”

She shakes her head. “Not at all,” she replies. Something tugs at the back of her mind; the woman’s name sounds familiar, but she can’t quite place it. “Where are we off to? A costume party?”

They both exchange looks. “No, why?” Amy asks curiously, eying Clara’s outfit. “Is that where you’ve just been? Your dress is very unusual – but you look lovely in it.”

“Perhaps she’s one of the new designers,” Rory supplies helpfully. “Are you?”

Clara’s growing more confused by the minute. “I’ve not the creativity for that, I’m afraid,” she answers bemusedly. The car rumbles along.

“Well, you’re from up north,” Rory deduces. “Is this a new trend we’ve yet to hear about?”

Clara’s got to admit, they’re quite the double-act; she’s still convinced they’re putting her on, until—

Amy taps her chin with her finger. “Odd, considering we’re the ones who start the trends,” she replies, her expression thoughtful. “We’ve only been away two years, Rory; I doubt _that_ much has changed.”

Clara inclines an eyebrow. So much for her tourist theory. “You’ve been in Paris for two years?”

“Oh, yes, we moved in March of 1918,” Amy recalls, her hands clasped together in her lap. Clara laughs once, but the two don’t break. She stops.

“You—” Her lips part in disbelief. “You’re serious?” Her heart thumps loudly in her chest. She’s seen actors win awards for performances not as convincing as the one this couple is portraying, but it’s not exactly possible _–_ the terrifying thought crosses her mind that she’s in a car with psychopaths, or perhaps serial killers with a twisted liking for the past—

“Are you alright, madame?” Rory inquires, leaning closer. “You’ve gone a bit pale. If you feel ill, please inform me – I’m a doctor.”

She attempts to ask about the date again, but Amy’s voice cuts through the carriage suddenly. “Oh, we’ve arrived!” She trills excitedly as the wheels roll to a halt. The driver opens the door for them a moment later.

Clara steps out, and Rory’s already at the door of the pub, holding it open. Amy’s hands are on her back, impatient. She moves forward, jaw hanging as she takes in her surroundings. It’s like she’s just entered an entirely different time period; there are multiple cars exactly like the one she’d just exited parked on the street, and the lighting circuitry is ancient, causing the lamp to flicker delicately. Rory’s watching her reaction curiously, smiling in apparent confusion.

“Clara?” He asks. “Alright?”

She’s speechless, but manages to nod her head. He waves a hand, beckoning her over.

“Well, come on,” he says. “Everyone’s waiting.”

She doesn’t have the voice to ask who _everyone_ is, or what world she’s just stepped straight into, but she finds herself trusting her senses – she knows she’s not drunk. She knows she’s not hallucinating.

And with that in mind, grounding her, she walks inside.

–

So, she’s right.

She’s _definitely_ entered another era: a group of people are inside, laughing and talking loudly with each other, spread out among the small tables, all lit by candlelight under the dimmed overhead chandeliers. Every head turns toward them; several people raise their glasses, calling their names happily. Clara can hardly comprehend the sudden rush of energy overtaking them.

“You’re late!” A boisterous voice shouts over the crowd. Another red-headed woman steps forward, throwing an arm over Amy’s shoulders. “We’ve been waitin’ for ages.”

Amy halts, slipping out from under the woman’s grasp. “We have company!” Amy announces. They all still, staring past Amy and centering their attention purely on the previously unnoticed, unfamiliar girl in the back.

“Well, well, well,” a man says, examining her. His accent is distinctively American; Clara blinks once, twice, three times – she’s seen this man before. “What do we have here?”

They’ve all formed a half-circle around her, observing interestedly. She feels her cheeks heating up from all the attention. She notices a few of them checking out her attire and shifts nervously.

Rory breaks the ice for her. “This is Clara Oswald. Amy…picked her up, shall we say.” He mimes knocking back a drink. A few people grin knowingly.

“She’s beautiful,” the American man says, moving closer. He smiles charmingly, reaching for her hand. “Hello, sweetheart.”

A older woman smacks him on the back, rolling her eyes. Clara does a double take; this woman’s face is familiar to her, too, like she’s seen them all in a dream.

“Oh, don’t start,” the woman commands casually. Her hair is full of wild curls and her smirk is daunting. Clara’s mouth dries out – she _swears_ she knows this woman, but can’t place where; the man winks sheepishly. The woman continues, “Why don’t we all introduce ourselves before flirting shamelessly with the poor girl.”

“Of course,” the man says. “You’re absolutely right. Apologies. I’m Jack Harkness.”

Clara smiles in amusement, thinking she’s misheard. “You're—” She begins, her lips wrapping around the name familiarly, and starts to laugh; the man, however, doesn’t budge. She realizes he isn’t joking and her smile dies. “I’m _sorry_ —?”

Her exclamation of surprise is overlooked as the woman who’d berated him kisses her on each cheek and says, “River Song.”

There’s no way, Clara thinks, analyzing the two of them; there’s _no way_ two of the most famous writers of the classic era are standing in front of her, nonchalantly shaking her hand.

River just decides to point out each of them in turn, interpreting Clara’s stunned expression as one of being overwhelmed (which she is, but for an entirely different reason): Rose Tyler comes first, young and decadently beautiful, closing out the writers; there’s her boyfriend, a man called 'Ten,’ whom Clara doesn’t recognize; the red-haired woman from earlier who’d embraced Amy turns out be Donna Noble, the esteemed editor, mentor, and critic; River gestures towards Amy and a young black woman named Martha Jones, citing them as talented impressionist artists.

“Flattery will get you far, River,” Amy toasts, raising her glass. “I might just have to paint you next.”

The group laughs. Clara’s head is spinning; she’s in the middle of some extremely elaborate prank, she’s sure of it—

But nobody drops the act; they all continue to interact like they’ve been friends for years, and she can’t deny the resemblance between their appearances to what she knows of them from – she can’t believe she’s saying this – _the future_ ; she’s seen them in photographs, this exact clique of artists. She stares around, wide-eyed, and someone else catches her gaze.

There’s an older, intimidatingly handsome man standing behind the rest; he’s sleekly dressed in a navy blue vest and jacket over a white-collared shirt, irises a striking blue-grey colour. He parts the crowd with a simple, “Excuse me.” The inside of his jacket is a silky red and his boots fall heavy against the wooden floor.

His voice is gravelly and low-pitched. He hasn’t stopped staring at her. She can’t tear her eyes off of him.

He stops in front of her, placing his palm upturned. She slips her hand into his, watching him bend to press his lips against her knuckles. He doesn’t break her gaze.

His mouth is in a half-smile as he straightens. He says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Clara,” allowing her wrist to slip through his fingers.

Her tongue skids across the bottom row of her teeth as she struggles for the words to answer him, unusually flustered. She manages, “Likewise.”

His smile grows, shadowing a smirk. “But I’ve yet to introduce myself,” he reminds her with an air of attractive arrogance. She can’t speak. He slips his hands in his pockets, leaning forward. “I’m the Doctor.”

She blinks like she’s in a daze. “Doctor who?”

Donna interrupts loudly, holding a glass of scotch. “Oh, ignore 'im,” she declares. “He gets a kick outta that one – thinks it makes him _mysterious._ ”

“It does, mind you,” Rory adds, feet kicked up on the table. “I hate being around him; people come in looking for a doctor, and I never know if they mean me or him.”

“Hang on,” Clara says, processing slowly. She points a finger at the man. “You’re – the _Doctor?_ The famous _novelist_?”

Everyone laughs; he chuckles, genuinely amused. “I’m not sure how _famous_ , my dear, but I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.”

She can feel her jaw unhinging, and the part it leaves between her lips, but she can’t stop herself – she’s in complete awe. He’s a writer she’s idolized for years, and here he is, somehow standing in front of her, kissing her hand, talking—

She inhales steadily. So, fuck it; either she’s crazy and she’ll wake up in an institution, or maybe – just _maybe –_ she’s somehow been kidnapped back to the twenties. She’ll take her chances.

“In that case,” she replies, the light in her eyes turning to a waltz, “the pleasure is all mine.”

It’s a response he doesn’t seem to expect; his eyebrows raise. He shifts his body slightly towards the table behind him, where a book lays open next to a bottle of wine. He glances back. “Can I interest you in a drink?”

She feels herself nodding even without consciously doing so. She’s still observing him, struck by his stature, his demeanor, the curl of his mouth. It’s like she’s being drawn in. She answers, almost curiously cautious, “Sure. Alright.” She can hear murmuring behind her, but he pays no attention to the others, and so she doesn’t, either.

“Excellent.” He pulls out a chair for her, waiting for her to sit; once she does, he takes the booth opposite her and uncorks the wine. He pours it carefully, his eyes flickering to her face. He says, “Clara. You’ve got a beautiful name.”

It clicks inside of her head. _Oh,_ of course; it’s like the girl in his books—she shrugs. “Must be pretty common,” she responds passively. Whoever he writes about must have the same one. She wonders if their paths will cross.

He grins bemusedly at her remark. “Not quite,” he says. “Not from what I’ve seen.”

She must be the second, she muses idly; it’s a shame she couldn’t have been the first. “Well, thank you.”

“Your accent,” he states. “You’re from England. Up north?”

“Lancashire.” She swirls the liquid in her glass. “And where exactly in Scotland is yours from?”

“Glasgow,” he waves dismissively, “but I’m from all over. Don’t like to stick around one place too long.”

Clara smiles genuinely. “Lucky I caught you here in Paris then, I suppose.”

He links his fingers, elbows on the table, resting his chin against the backs of his knuckles. There’s something undeniably _fascinating_ about her; he can’t put a definition to it. It’s not that she’s beautiful – which she is; she’s stunning, the kind of person who turns heads by walking into a room – it’s _more_ than that, like a glow under the surface of her skin, a magnetic pull.

“It it?” He questions, studying her. “Lucky, I mean.”

She gives him a look like he’s being deliberately leading. “Yes, I’m a big fan of your books.”

He inclines an eyebrow. “Plural? I’ve only written one.”

Okay: so she’s new at this whole time-travel thing. She scrambles for a save, offering a twist of her lips, dimples showing. “Well, I’m sure I’ll be a fan of whatever you release in the future.”

He laughs, buying it. “You’re very confident in my ability.”

She shrugs nonchalantly. “After the brilliance of _Regeneration,_ how could I not be?” She can feel the the hours she’s spent analyzing his pages threatening to roll out of her mouth; she wants to ask about the symbolism of butterflies in summer, and the fire burning up his skeleton – _you said you died once in December; how does it feel to have a beating heart –_ but he’s only just met her and she doesn’t think she’d be allowed to dive into his veins quite so soon, and he’s yet to write those words, anyway.

He seems almost bashful of her approval, though he doesn’t outwardly reveal it. He clears his throat once. “I appreciate it,” he says modestly. “But I’ve been rather stuck since, I’m afraid.”

She’s not troubled; he finds assurance in the red paint of her nails tapping against wood, and the matching shade of her lipstick. “Oh,” she responds with an oddly omniscient air about her, “I wouldn’t worry. I think you’ll do brilliantly.”

His stare is calculating, masked admiration. He exhales slowly. “You know,” he says, leaning back and crossing his arms, “I’m starting to think I might agree with you.”

She smiles mysteriously. “I knew I’d get you to see things my way.”

–

Donna stands an hour later. “Up you get, lads,” she commands. “Pub’s closing. Time to move elsewhere.”

Clara’s half-drunk, giggling against the back of her wrist; the Doctor’s smiling genuinely, in the middle of telling a story about how they’d once crashed an exhibition of Amy’s. There’s a pressure suddenly on the back of Clara’s chair; Amy leans over her, a glint in her eye.

“Daft, the lot of you,” she says, but she’s grinning. “You nearly got me thrown out of my own show.”

“It’s a shame we didn’t,” Jack calls from behind them; he’s putting his coat on, preparing to follow Donna out the door.

Amy rolls her eyes. “So, are you coming?” She asks, rocking on the balls of her feet. Her mouth is curled; her gaze slants toward the Doctor. “If you do, the night doesn’t have to end.”

There’s some sort of implication in her words that only the Doctor picks up on; he gives her a half-hearted glare, but his eyes soften when they slip back to Clara’s. He says, “It’s up to Clara. You can’t just keep dragging her around all night, like a pet.”

Amy sighs grumpily, but Clara can sense some sort of power struggle shifting between them; Amy says, “If you don’t want her to come, you don’t have to make up excuses.”

Clara’s eyebrows raise. His elbow slips off the table in his haste to correct the statement. “That’s not it,” he argues instantly, and then stops, having clearly played into Amy’s game. He says quietly, gaze trained on the floor, “I’d love for her to come.”

Clara smiles at him. “Well, then,” she replies, “I’d be delighted to.”

Amy claps her hands. “Excellent,” she says excitedly. “The cars are waiting outside.”

The Doctor stands and walks around the back of Clara’s chair, waiting for her to follow. He picks up her coat and holds it, allowing her to slip her arms in; she nearly blushes. She isn’t used to this sort of suave, polished chivalry. He holds the door for her on their way out.

Amy’s suddenly next to her again, a hand on her shoulder. She says, “This way, Clara! Our car’s here,” and steers Clara the opposite direction.

The Doctor rolls his eyes, unamused; Amy winks over her shoulder. Clara’s expression is baffled. He calls, “I’ll meet you there,” and follows Jack into a car.

Rory smiles apologetically at Clara as she takes a seat inside. The driver closes the door for them. Amy turns to her immediately and whispers, “That was incredible.”

Clara looks between them, confused. “Sorry, what?”

Rory leans forward. “We’ve _never_ seen the Doctor take such an interest in someone like that before.”

She doesn’t understand; the idea doesn’t add up. “Surely you _must_ have,” she says, thinking of his books.

Amy shakes her head. “No,” she answers seriously. “That was quite an unusual display. He’s very reserved, the Doctor. Cold, almost. It’s taken us a long time to get to know him.”

Amy’s description sounds nothing like the man Clara’s just met. Her lips are tilted in a short frown. “That’s…hard to believe,” she says carefully, and nothing more. She’s not sure she can delve into a discussion of the innerworkings of the Doctor’s without coming off a little too well-informed; she’d rather not take the risk.

Rory and Amy exchange glances. “Well,” Amy says, brushing it off, “it’s nice to see, regardless. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen him smile like that.”

The words feel like a crater against Clara’s chest; there’s a sadness to the sentence, an ache she can’t let go of. She watches the scenery outside, her mind suddenly consumed, barely even noticing the differences between the Paris she’s being shown and the Paris she’s used to. History says the Doctor was happy; not this detached, closed-off echo of a man Amy and Rory are implying, but—

Oh. _One_ book.

That’s _right_ ; his first book is a winding road of self-discovery, but not in the _Catcher in the Rye-_ type transition from maturing boy to life lesson: it’s a raw, jarring, hard-edged story of someone who’s lost everything and their journey to start again. She thinks about the end, and how he hasn’t quite found his way; it’s a meek hopefulness, saying—

_I have not yet discovered a reason to live, but I’d like to believe that one is out there, waiting for me to find it._

It’s brief, but the thought crosses her mind before she can stop it: she’d give anything to be the reason. She shakes her head. There are bigger forces at work than her silly, trite daydreams. He has someone, she reminds herself; he has someone and it’s not her.

She says, without being able to control it, “He deserves to be happy.”

Amy looks at her softly; it’s the most genuine emotion she’s seen from the other girl all night. Amy murmurs, her lips in a small smile, “Yes. He does.” Her hand covers Clara’s. “He truly, honestly does.”

–

They arrive at Donna’s and it’s a far more private setting; there are two other girls standing in the foyer who weren’t at the pub – introduced as _Madame_ Vastra and Jenny Flint – and they’re suspiciously close. They give Clara an appreciative look when she arrives; the Doctor excuses himself from the conversation.

He’s holding two glasses of champagne when he approaches. His expression is somewhat apologetic. “I realize we’ve been drinking all night,” he says, “but it’s – this isn’t simply me attempting to – it’s what we do.” He tries to shrug nonchalantly, but his ears are burning. “You understand. Artists. We can’t get anything done sober.”

She laughs at that, easing his embarrassment, and accepts the glass. She jokes lightly, “I can handle my liquor better than I _look_ like I can.”

She notices the sudden intimacy fueled by the location – the rooms are spread out, and everyone seems to congregate to their own corners, chatting in twos and threes. Amy’s watching subtly from the doorway of a room that looks like a library, whispering to Rory.

The Doctor nods his head to the right. “Would you like to see the garden?” He suggests. “We don’t use it much during the winter, but it’s lovely during the summer.”

She smiles and loops her arm through his own without waiting for him to offer. He seems subtly startled at the gesture, but doesn’t protest, instead smiling and leading her in the direction of the bay doors.

Donna’s garden is beautiful; it’s a patio that leads into a grassy path between rose beds, and there are cozy chairs arranged around a small table lit by candlelight. A string of individual lamps wash the perimeters of the yard in a beautiful, flickering shine.

“It’s gorgeous,” Clara breathes out.

The Doctor casts her a look, his face swathed in a dim glow. His voice is gentle. “It is, isn’t it,” he murmurs, and when she turns to meet his gaze, she knows he’s talking about more than the scenery. It doesn’t rush blood to her cheeks; it rests in the air delicately, and it feels _right –_ maybe it’s the bubbles of the champagne, or the stars twinkling overhead, but his smile isn’t one that admits to anything, and so she doesn’t ask.

He breaks her gaze, reaching to pull out a chair. “Care to sit for awhile?”

She hums. “That’d be nice.”

They don’t speak continuously for the first hour, simply admiring what’s around them, offering up small talk and details of their lives: he served time in the military, but he wasn’t much of a soldier, and hates violence; she danced when she was younger, but quit when she realized her height wouldn’t grow beyond five feet, two inches; he often dreams of exploring outer space, and what could possibly be up there. She can see immediately why he enjoys the garden so much – it’s tranquil, soothing; she’s pleasantly warm and her thoughts aren’t so overbearing, clouding her head. She wants to see him smile and that’s all.

Perhaps she gets too comfortable, and that’s what prompts her to ask. Maybe it’s Amy’s perceptions ringing around her skull. She looks over at him, the light throwing shadows across the lines of his face, and questions, “Are you lonely?”

His head turns sharply and then halts in a strange, awkward motion; he hasn’t quite set his gaze on her yet. His mouth is open as if there’s an automatic response on the tip of his tongue, but he saves it from her. He doesn’t speak for a long time. His clenches his jaw, and she feels a sense of guilt.

She’s about to apologize for being intrusive when he finally answers, voice low, “It’s not exactly an emotion one flaunts.”

There’s a knife in her heart, the blade touching from wall to wall. She reaches out without thinking about it and places her hand on top of his. Her finger are so small they can barely wrap around his palm, but her eyes are earnest when they meet his. She says, “You shouldn’t be.”

“I _shouldn’t_?”

“I don’t want you to be.”

It forces him to pause. He studies her for a second, and then moves his hand away; she takes it as if she’s made him uncomfortable and blushes, spine straightening. He clears his throat. “Well. Thank you.”

There’s a tension between them that wasn’t there previously. She stands unevenly, brushing off the bottom of her dress, feeling awkward and out of place. She coughs. “I should go.”

He follows, his feet heavy on the floor. He seems to struggle with how to respond, rubbing a hand against the back of his head. He inquires, “Will I see you again?”

She stills. It’s the last thing she thought she’d hear after the previous exchange. “Do you want to?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. Of course.”

The quickness of the answer catches her off-guard. It’s a battle of mixed signals, like traffic lights; she’s doing her best to navigate through the changes. She replies, “It’d be nice to see you again, too.”

They face each other for a moment, both smiling; Rory picks precisely that moment to stumble onto the patio, apparently forgetting the step down. His face is a bit flushed; he grins apologetically at Clara. He says, “Sorry to interrupt, but Amy and I are taking off. Clara, would you fancy a ride back?”

She nods graciously. “I was just about to come find you,” she answers, tearing her gaze reluctantly from the Doctor’s. “Yes, I’d appreciate a ride. Thank you.”

If Rory picks up on the vibe between them, he doesn’t mention it. “It’s the least we can do.”

The Doctor steps forward, resting a hand against Clara’s back. “I’ll walk you out.”

She throws a few goodbyes over her shoulder as she makes her way to the front of the house; River blows her a kiss, and Jack winks with a flourish grin. Donna tells her she’s welcome any time while Rose nods enthusiastically. They all seem to be sharing a mindset on her, though she’s not exactly sure what it entails.

Rory, ever the gentleman, holds the car door open for her; she shakes her head and gestures for him to get in. “One minute,” she calls, hoping he gets the hint; the Doctor hovers behind her. Rory gives her an understanding nod and climbs in with Amy, waiting. She turns to him.

“So,” she says.

“So,” he echoes.

“I had a lovely night.”

He inclines his head. “As did I.”

Her smile is warm and sincere. She extends her hand again, aiming to shake his.

He glances at it like he’s not sure what to do with it at first; he takes it between his fingers and carefully lifts it to his mouth, pressing his lips against her knuckles. It’s an oddly intimate gesture, and it shouldn’t be, but he lingers - she can feel his breath on the back of her hand. Her pulse thrums in her wrist, fluttering like a quick patter of wings. She knows he can feel it.

He says, tender and poignant, “Goodnight, Clara.”

It sounds like a tone reserved for a lover; the weight of it falls over her lightly, dusty moonlight. The scene feels hazy, tugging at the corners of her mind; she’ll blame the wine, later, but for now – she’s wavering slightly on her feet. He hasn’t dropped her hand.

She doesn’t know why she says it; it slips out between some strange disconnect of her heart and her head, brain stem cut, spinal cord severed: the fact that her body responds to her at all seems like a miracle.

“Ask me to stay,” she breathes out, eyes trained on his.

He blinks once, twice; his pupils are blown wide. He stammers over, “ _Excuse_ me?”

She pulls her hand back, realizing the implication of her words, and blushes horribly. She trips taking a frantic step backward. “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she exhales. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me—”

She’s at the car door, now; she swings it open. He’s following after her. “Wait!” He implores, but she’s already slipping inside. The last thing she hears is him calling, “I’d still like to see you again!”

Amy and Rory are both staring at her, mouths open. Their surprise is warranted, even without hearing the entire exchange. Amy raises an eyebrow delicately. Clara’s face is flushed and her fingers are tapping against her knee anxiously. The car rolls on; the Doctor stands in the driveway, watching it disappear around the corner.

Rory’s the first to settle in, attempting to quell her nerves. “You know, the Doctor doesn’t exactly say things he doesn’t mean,” he tells her cautiously.

Clara stares, uncomprehending. “Sorry?”

“Writers,” Amy explains, joining in; she’s picking up on Rory’s shift. “They can go one of two ways: either they hate wasting words, or they never run out of them.”

Clara’s lips curl in an unwilling grin. “Let me guess,” she says, heart still bursting out of her veins. “The Doctor’s the former.”

Rory shrugs half-heartedly, as if it’s a coincidence; Clara glances between the pair. She feels like she’s in the middle of a bigger plan, as if she’s an integral piece in a chess game. They’re both watching her closely. She asks, “What are you playing at?”

Rory – knowing it isn’t his place to say so – admits, “I think you should see him again.”

“You—” She takes him in: reluctant demeanor, crossed arms, gaze averted; she inquires suspiciously, “Why?”

Amy’s still drunk and lacking any sort of patience. She slams her hand against the seat. “Listen,” she begins passionately, “all I know is that it’s been two _years_ and I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at you tonight.”

Rory nods affirmatively. “She’s right.”

Clara puts her face in her hands; there’s a pounding in her head, interrupting her ability to think. The Doctor’s smile comes to mind; his laugh, his fingers covering hers. Her blood scalds her veins. She can feel her stomach twisting over, tying knots, tangling uncomfortably; but there’s a relief as well, the pressure of his arm across her waist, the way his heart beat in his chest.

Amy says, gazing off into the distance, “He looked…alive.”

It’s almost like she’s talking to herself. Rory’s stare drops, binding the truth of the observation. The silence is heavy.

“You really care about him, don’t you.” Clara doesn’t phrase it like a question.

Amy’s eyes meet hers, unwavering and strong. “Yes.”

So Clara says, “Okay.”

It’s completely against her better judgment, and she has no idea if she’ll be able to return at all, anyway, but – she’ll try. It’s the most she can promise. She doesn’t know what she can do, but she’s out of things to lose: she’ll only be hurting herself if she fails.

Rory echoes her carefully. “Okay?”

She says, “You said he doesn’t waste words.”

“Right.”

“So,” she continues slowly, “I don’t think he needs another person who walks out on him and doesn’t come back.”

She remembers the curves of his face, soaked in candlelight, and the loneliness emanating from the blue of his irises; the sincerity in his voice had been unmistakable. She knows that much. Something about him pulls her in. He feels unavoidable.

Neither of them respond for a moment, struck by the depth of her statement.

Rory finally breaks the silence. “Okay,” he says. He’s looking at her with a kind of respect. “Okay.”

Amy smiles; it’s softer than the grin she usually wears, delicate and somehow bittersweet. “We can pick you up again. Whenever you need.”

“Underneath the clock is fine, just here,” she replies gratefully as the car comes to a halt. “This Wednesday, same time? I’ve got a busy few days ahead of me.”

The driver opens the door for her. Amy confirms, “Next Wednesday.” She’s still holding that same gentle expression; it’s kind, but sad. Clara thinks she understands more than anybody else does, and she’s suddenly appreciative of it.

Rory says, “Goodnight, Clara.”

She turns and walks up the steps, listening to the car head down the curve of the hill, and prays it wasn’t all a dream.

–

She wakes up in a daze the next morning, hungover and muscles aching. She lies in bed and re-processes every detail, the trickling lights of Donna’s garden, Jack’s flirtatious remarks thrown across the pub, Amy’s vivid hair and Rory’s sweet smile, Rose and Ten laughing at the moon. And the Doctor. The Doctor’s red silk lining of his jacket; his suave boots; his lips curling around that shy, unpracticed smile.

She knows it was real. She’s not creative enough to invent all of that. She teaches literature; she doesn’t write it.

George has taken the kids out for the day and leaves Clara at home to work; she’s thankful for it, because she keeps wandering about the house absentmindedly, starting chores and drifting off in the middle of them; leaving taps running, dishes half-washed, beds nearly made.

She finally sits at the dining room table to scrape together a plan of her syllabus, and her fingers wind up skimming the pages of his second book; she takes in sentences, scenes: the Eiffel Tower and the kiss during the slow ascension of the lift; a morning under his sheets, and his heart pumping full of colour, the girl’s hair catching in the light; how he looks at her and tastes the universe in his mouth, time and space and the entirety of all things beautiful and everlasting.

She snaps the book shut. She’s being stupid: she _knows_ it’s yet to come, but it doesn’t stop her from wanting to see him. Wednesday seems too far away.

Looking at the list of authors she’d somehow spent the previous night with hurts her head, and so she settles on her original plan: River Song, Jack Harkness, Rose Tyler, and the Doctor. She’ll take the jokes. She can’t be bothered anymore. She sends the email off and rubs her eyes tiredly, idly wondering what they’re doing and if she really even existed to them at all.

–

It’s Monday when Angie says over dinner, “You know, you’re being weird.”

It takes Clara a minute to realize she’s being referenced. She looks up. “Sorry?”

The younger girl frowns at her. “You’ve been weird all weekend. What’s wrong with you?”

George shoots Angie a glare. “Don’t be rude,” he scolds his daughter. “Clara’s been under a lot of pressure lately.”

She grasps onto the excuse quickly, offering an exhausted smile. “Yeah,” she affirms. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

It’s clear Angie doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t push it with her father around. Clara’s wired, growing more and more anxious as the day approaches; she’s fueled by electricity instead of blood, five cups of coffee a day, thundering Paris rain.

It’s not enough.

–

Her syllabus is approved Wednesday afternoon. She takes it as a sign.

She miraculously makes it through the day without warranting any passive comments about her mental state, but by ten p.m. she’s a wreck – jittery and incapable of holding conversation, checking her watch anxiously every five seconds.

George gives her one look before he goes to bed and says, “You know, dear, you don’t seem well. Maybe you should get a bit of fresh air.”

She’d been planning on leaving soon anyway, but jumps at the opportunity to take it like his own suggestion. She reaches for her keys scattered across the coffee table. “You’re right,” she agrees with him, standing and shucking on her overcoat. “A walk would do me some good.”

“Lock up when you get back,” he reminds her, but she’s already halfway out the door.

–

Eleven fifty-eight. She’s pacing on the last step.

Eleven fifty-nine. She’s absolutely _insane,_ out of her mind, bonkers – a car that somehow travels back in time to the golden age of Paris? Is she _mad?_ It’s something out of a science-fiction novel, not a real, plausible event that actually occurs to modern-day, ordinary people without a family history of mental illness—

The clock strikes twelve; a car honks loudly from down the road. Her head whips around, her heart rising despite her best efforts not to get her hopes up—

It’s the same old car.

She’s holding her breath, watching the turn of the wheels, the way they stutter to a slow halt; okay, so, checklist: maybe she’s not crazy.

Amy throws the door open, smiling widely under ringlets of wild red hair. She greets, “Good to see you again, stranger.”

Clara grins; there’s a phrase that goes here, she thinks, as she clambers into the car, Rory bending to kiss her hand the same gentlemanly way he’d done before; she can’t help it. She laughs, her head thrown back.

_When in Rome._

“Straight to Donna’s tonight,” Amy informs her, pausing while Rory pours her champagne, being careful not to spill a drop as the vehicle rumbles along. “She and Jack have been going at it over his latest few chapters.”

Clara worries her lip between her teeth. “I don’t want to intrude.”

Amy giggles, waving a hand. “Oh, don’t worry,” she replies amusedly. “This is a normal night for us – Donna’s always having a go. But there’s a reason we trust her with our work.”

Rory smirks. “Shame it wasn’t River. That would’ve been a show.”

“And the Doctor.” Clara cuts to the chase, distracted by the harsh flapping of wings inside of her stomach. “Does he – know I’m coming?”

“Wouldn’t shut up about it, more like,” Amy corrects, almost grumbling into her glass. “He wanted to pick you up. Told him there was such a thing as too keen.”

Clara smiles at the information, but she can sense it’s too telling, too intimate of a shift. She tries to imagine him pulling up in a car, the hard line of his jaw, his hand outreached, beckoning her. She wonders where he lives, the style of his flat, the colour of his sheets. There are things she isn’t meant to know but craves anyway.

Rose and Ten are standing outside when they arrive, heads close together and fingers tangled. Rose tilts her neck to look as they step up to the door, and holds her index to her lips.

Amy rolls her eyes, seemingly understanding the message. “ _Still_?” She asks.

“Why d'you think we’re out here?” Rose responds, gesturing. “I’m not getting involved in their bloodbath. You know how stubborn they are.” Her gaze slips to Clara and her mouth curls knowingly. “But I suppose the three of you can’t avoid it, can you?”

Ten grins. “Maybe _he’ll_ stop stomping about now, too.”

Clara feels like she’s on the edge of a private joke by the way he’s staring at her, but the tone of familiarity underlining his voice makes her realize she’s the center of it. _Oh._ She knows exactly who he’s referring to, and something white-hot unfurls inside of her chest, burning her. Her cheeks tinge. Ten winks.

Rory leads them inside, and the shouting assaults their ears immediately – Donna’s voice rings out, screaming about inadvertent symbolism and false imagery, and Jack yells back in flowery, poetic metaphors, attempting to prove his point – Amy covers her mouth with the back of her hand, apparently blocking her laughter.

Jack strolls into the room, clearly trying to get away from his editor. “No,” he protests loudly, “you’ve completely misunderstood the point of the scene, and I think you’ll find that the subtext is perfectly clear in coalition with the protagonist’s intentions—”

Donna follows, opening her mouth to respond, but stops when she sees her new guests in the foyer. Jack follows her line of vision and smiles dashingly, immediately dropping the argument.

He struts over to Clara and takes both of her hands in his. “Thank God you’re here,” he proclaims. “You seem like a woman of magnificent taste, Clara, and I know you would’ve understood my literary choices.”

She fights back a laugh. _Better than you think,_ she wants to reply, _in fact, I’m teaching an entire class on them;_ she’s about to retort when she’s interrupted by a low voice from the back of the room. Her head shoots up. The Doctor stands behind Donna, leaning casually against the door frame, hands in his pockets, red lining of his jacket visible.

“You’re going a bit far with the dramatics, Jack,” he says coolly. “Clara hardly needs dragging into your battles.”

Jack doesn’t seem the type to back away from a challenge – Clara’s certain of that – but there’s something different influencing him as his spine straightens and he meets the older man’s hard stare. Nothing outwardly occurs, but when he turns back to Clara, his smile is startlingly more sincere and appreciative. He drops her hands and steps back with his palms held up in surrender.

“He’s right,” Jack agrees, digressing. “I apologize. It’s my fight; one I should finish. Donna? Shall we?”

She beckons him back toward the library. “We’ll go over it again, Jack, and you’d be smart to listen to me this time.”

They head off, voices low and hushed. The Doctor steps forward, and she watches the way his gaze scans her face, her lips, her hair, dropping to the neckline of her dress, her waist. He doesn’t betray his appreciation, but she can see it in the arch of his mouth, in the light of his eyes; there’s a resolution inside of him that wasn’t there previously.

Rory takes Amy’s arm and nudges her to the left, following Jack and Donna into the other room; Clara hardly notices them leave.

The Doctor stops in front of her. He bends down and kisses her delicately on the cheek, bordering between politeness and something more. It’s barely passable.

He greets softly, “Hello.” She vaguely notes the drastic shift in tone, and how he reacts to everyone who isn’t her.

She coaxes her own voice out of her throat. “Hello.”

“It’s good to see you again,” he says. He inclines his head, small smile gracing his lips; it feels like one he doesn’t let loose often.

“And you,” she manages to reply, but it’s as if once she starts, she can’t stop: “I’ve been waiting for this.”

He raises an eyebrow. “'This’?”

“You. I’ve been waiting to see you.”

If she’s heading into dangerous territory, he doesn’t mind following her there. He glances at the floor and then back at her in an endearingly bashful gesture. He replies, “I’ve been waiting to see you, too.” He rubs the nape of his neck. “Truth be told, I think I’ve been driving them mad.”

The confession comes almost unwillingly, like he’s handing her too many pieces that fit too easily together. Her smile carries a hint of embarrassment. She decides to meet him halfway. “The kids I look after thought something was wrong with me,” she reveals, hoping it’ll keep him opening up.

He laughs under his breath. “What a pair,” he says lightheartedly, and she suddenly wishes they could be, cards in a deck, synonyms and antonyms, complementary colours. He angles his body toward the bar. “Care for a drink?”

–

He gives her a tour of the rest of the house, once Jack and Donna have reached a truce and are instead working quietly together in a corner; Jenny and Madame Vastra are in the garden, and the Doctor manages avoiding conversation – _They’re surrealists,_ he whispers in her ear, _better not start, Vastra can make a lizard out of anything –_ but he shows her the living room, and the library, and the small, private reading room past it; the lights are dim but she doesn’t mind, taking a seat on the sofa. He sits next to her, careful to keep space between them.

“You mentioned something about children,” he prompts. He’s fascinated by her. “Are you a governess?”

She nearly chokes on her wine at the archaic term, but recovers before he senses anything amiss. “I am,” she tells him. “Two kids, boy and a girl. I was a family friend who came to stay for a week before traveling, but – their mother died, during that time. I couldn’t leave.”

He sits in silent contemplation for a moment. “It’s nice,” he says, and her eyebrows raise – it’s not exactly the adjective she’d choose – but he clarifies, “that you don’t walk out on people you care about.”

 _Oh_. Yes. He’s experienced a bit too much of that; it’s probably something he admires by virtue of having been on the other side. Her pulse throbs dully like a bruise.

She says quietly, “My mother died when I was sixteen.” And then: “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

He turns his body slightly, facing her. Their knees brush. He glances between them and places his hand delicately over hers, waiting to see if she protests; she doesn’t. He says, “I don’t mind,” and pauses, searching for the sentiment. “I’d like to know more about you.”

The way he unravels the words in his mouth makes them sound dense, but somehow fragile; almost like he’d meant to say, _I want to know_ everything _about you._

They’re a little past basic facts, but she hasn’t got much. “I’m an English teacher back home. I like making souffles but can never quite manage to get them right; I’m rubbish at baking. I don’t get out much.” She searches for more to say and comes up empty-handed. “I don’t know,” she says, charmingly self-deprecating; “I’m afraid I’m not that interesting.”

He hums in disagreement, but digresses. “How long are you in Paris?”

Her fingers grip her glass tighter. “Late August,” she says. “It’s been a year since she – died. They wanted to get away for awhile. Have an extended holiday.”

“I see.” He covers his disappointment well and changes the subject. “You must like children.”

Her mouth curves. “I do,” she agrees. “But I don’t want any of my own.”

He seems surprised at that. “No?”

She shakes her head. “Working part-time with them is enough,” she explains. “I don’t quite fancy taking it on as a full-time job.”

“Fair enough.”

“You?”

He’s startled by the inquiry; he glances at her, expression curiously amused. “I’m too old,” he says as if he’s stating the obvious. “I might’ve been open to the idea when I was younger, but I never – well. Never found the right person.”

She blinks, stunned; she forgets how much older than her he is, even as she stares straight at him. She doesn’t feel the gap, though she’s familiar with all those years, sitting inside of him. She scoffs. “Hardly.”

“Sorry?”

“Old. You’re hardly old.”

He laughs. “Okay,” he says, playing along. “I’m not old. Perhaps you’re too young.”

She’ll take it; the corners of her mouth lift. “You’re right,” she allows, noticing the flirtatious edge her voice catches on and being unable to stop it. “It’s my fault. I was born late.”

He raises an eyebrow, smirking, and her cheeks redden. He says lowly, “Born too late for _what_ , exactly?”

It’s a challenge; he holds her gaze, testing her. She doesn’t back down.

“Nothing,” she answers finally, but it’s not a divergent. “I said I was born _late,_ not _too_ late.”

Subtlety is all but forgotten. She’s drunk and he’s darkly attractive, and she can’t find it in herself to care about much else: _I don’t need a consequence; I’m not even permanent; I can’t sit beside you and not think about your mouth in the crook of my neck._ Her legs are squeezed together tightly. He lifts a hand and his fingers wrap around her wine glass, covering her own. He slides it carefully from her grasp and sets it on the coffee table without looking. She follows his movements, passive, blood racing in her veins, uncomfortable heat in the pit of her stomach.

His fingertips uncurl against her knee. He’s moving closer, experimenting with the air between them. She shivers perceptibly, and his smirk grows, leaning in—

Martha picks exactly that moment to barge through the doorway, and they both spring apart, the Doctor standing automatically on his feet, hands behind his back. He’s staring coldly at the girl as Clara tries to keep the blush from spreading, but, well – she’s not an actress. Her face is hot. Martha glances between them peculiarly.

She decides not to comment. “Clara, Amy’s looking for you,” Martha informs her delicately, still uncertain of what exactly she’s just interrupted. “Rory’s got to work early in the morning, so they’re on their way out.”

Clara tries to keep her voice steady and tone unaccented. “Thank you,” she replies, following suit and standing, straightening out her dress. She doesn’t look at the Doctor for longer than appropriate. “Right. I’ll just—”

“Walk you,” the Doctor says, saving her from having to ask. “I’ll walk you out.”

The distance he spreads between their bodies is forced and awkward as they move past Martha and out to the library; Donna and Jack haven’t moved much, though Jack smiles with all of his teeth when he spies the Doctor’s hand slipping to Clara’s lower back out of habit, leading her to the front.

Rory’s just clambering into the back seat when they emerge outside; he catches Clara’s eye and gives her a single nod, shutting the car door and giving them their privacy.

She feels like there’s a plan they’re all in on, conspiring for her, for the Doctor; she’s been on the receiving end of too many knowing grins and inclined eyebrows and whispers in corners to remain willfully ignorant.

The Doctor’s hand falls. She angles her body to face him, nerves trembling underneath her skin; she hasn’t made the greatest impression with goodbyes.

But he’s staring profoundly at her, and she knows he isn’t going to pretend otherwise; he wants his fingerprints to melt into her bones. She feels his need to touch her like they’re sharing muscles, an arm tingling, legs welded rigid; his spine curves, bending to meet her, and her neck arches.

“You know,” he begins, and this is their defining moment: his voice is low. “I would have asked you to stay.”

 _Oh._ She thought he’d buried it. Her throat feels like it’s filled with sand; grainy, rough, calloused – he’s digging it up. She can see castles being built in his eyes. She asks, “Why?”

His eyes are probing; she forces herself not to shy away underneath them. She stands tall. He says bluntly, “You’re different.”

“How so?” Her reply sounds defensive; she’s taken aback. It’s not what she expected.

He shifts his shoulders in an almost unwilling shrug. “I can’t put my finger on it,” he says slowly. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

It’s flattering to hear, but she tuts under her breath, relaxing. “You’re a writer,” she answers, cheeky. “Give it a name. Go on.”

He offers a short laugh. “Clever,” he allows. His expression grows softer, more serious. He reaches up and his fingers brush her cheek, down her jawline, underneath her chin. He tilts her head. She’s certain her lungs have been punctured and the air escapes through her chest, suffocating her. He says gently, “You feel like the first beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He steps nearer to her. His thumb traces the arch just below her bottom lip. They’re so close; he’s looking down, nose lightly skimming hers. She can’t speak; it’s like the moment she met him all over again, her heart beating twenty-three times too many per minute, shivering despite the warm weather. She thinks he’s going to kiss her, and then—

His lips press gently against her forehead. Her eyelashes flutter and she looks up at him. His gaze is weighted, heavy; he captures a strand of her hair between his fingers and sweeps it carefully behind her ear.

He takes a step away, fingertips drifting from her skin. He turns around and walks inside without sparing her a glance back, deliberate and poignant.

It’s like—

It’s like he just said _I love you._

–

“Tomorrow,” she tells Amy and Rory breathlessly upon falling into the car. “Pick me up tomorrow.”

–

Surprisingly, it’s Rose and Ten who meet her at the clock, equally apologetic grins on their faces. Clara opens her mouth to ask, but Rose beats her to the question.

“They’re having a row,” she explains, rolling her eyes. “Amy’s rather stubborn, if you haven’t noticed; she gets herself into a right state sometimes.”

“Ah.” Clara can picture it, easily. “Well, I hope I haven’t sent you out of your way.”

“Not at all,” Ten waves her apologies away. “We were at the pub. It’s Donna’s night off.”

Clara grins. “Her break from criticising you lot on a daily basis? Must be nice.”

They both laugh, but Rose grimaces after, throwing her head back against the seat. “It’ll be me, next,” she says decidedly, and Ten rubs her knee understandingly. “I’ve got to give her the first collection next week.”

“Wait until you witness _that,_ Clara,” Ten says, throwing her a smirk. “And you thought Jack was bad.”

Rose backhands his arm. “I’m not worse than _Jack._ ”

Ten gives Clara an exasperated look she understands all too well. “Of course you aren’t, dear,” he comforts, but he leans into Clara as they disembark the car and whispers, “She really is. Artists. They’re so _dramatic._ ”

Clara giggles, but there’s a warmth to the way she feels so suddenly included in their group, like she belongs with them, like she should’ve been with them all along. She heads inside, wondering if the universe made a mistake and this is its way of rectifying it, tossing her back in time right when time needs her most.

–

Ten’s right, however; Amy’s throwing death glares at Rory with such a ferocity that Clara actually imagines she can see the knives; Martha is patting Rory’s arm across the bar. Clara immediately goes to her.

“Oh, Amy,” she says, rubbing the girl’s shoulder, “what’s happened?”

Amy looks absolutely miserable. “Clara, I don’t think it’s working out between us,” she shares unhappily, her eyes growing big and wet. “I think we’ve made a mistake.”

Clara knows they haven’t – literally, she means; she _knows –_ and so she says, “Come on, now, I’m sure that’s not true.”

Amy’s lower lip quivers. “He wants children,” she divulges, but her tone causes it to sound like a tragedy, “he’s always wanted them. And I – I can’t have them.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I can’t ever give him that.”

“He doesn’t care,” Clara states firmly, gripping Amy’s fingers between her own. “Amy, listen to me: Rory _loves_ you. He loves you. He doesn’t want his own children; he wants them with you, and you leaving him wouldn’t make any of that worthwhile.” She offers the distraught redhead a smile, bringing Amy’s knuckles to her mouth and kissing them nicely. “Trust me.”

Amy asks quiveringly, “How do you know?”

Clara sneaks a glance at Rory over her shoulder. “Look at him,” she implores. “He’s just as miserable as you are. Talk to him, Amy. You love him, too. You’re not a burden.”

Amy throws her arms around Clara’s neck unceremoniously. “Oh, Clara,” she weeps, and Clara wrinkles her nose: she can smell the whiskey. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to us.”

Clara grins bemusedly. “'Us’?”

“All of us,” Amy emphasizes. “We’ve needed someone like you. Thank you.”

She makes her way over to Rory, and stands uncertainly next to him; Martha catches her eye across the room and nods gratefully as Amy sits beside him and two begin to talk.

Clara hears a soft clapping behind her; she turns and finds the Doctor leaning casually against the archway, smirking.

“What a speech,” he says, his tone playfully mocking. “Are you _sure_ you’ve no interest in writing?”

She tosses a napkin at him, blushing. “Oh, quiet.”

He laughs once, extending a hand to her. “Take a walk with me,” he says. “I could use some air. The room’s been stifling – all this misery.”

She tries not to be amused by him. “Wow. Careful, dear, I might _actually_ think you’re heartless.”

He allows it to slip out mildly, without any trace of embarrassment. “You know I’m not.”

He’s getting better at this. She only wishes she were, but her cards are closer to her chest, queens and kings and hidden jesters.

She smiles secretly, entwining her fingers with his as he helps her stand. “I do,” she agrees, hoping he can’t feel doves taking flight in her wrist. “I really do.”

–

They’re walking aimlessly along the riverbank, admiring the glow of the streetlamps reflected in the canal. She can feel the negative space between their hands like it’s substantive, a wall she wants to break but can’t. The Doctor’s talking idly about his past again.

“I met Jack first,” he explains casually. “Jack’s book was published nine months before mine, but he introduced me to Donna after reading the first chapter. My career took off from there. Jack’s been close with Rose and Ten for years, and I met them next; Donna raved about Rose. She dotes on her, to be honest.” He smiles at the memory. “It’s hard not to. She and Amy are alike that way – they’re so…young. Hopeful.”

“It’s attractive,” Clara says vaguely.

He gives her a funny look. “They’re a bit – _too_ young for me, actually.”

“I meant hope,” she corrects, grinning as he fumbles for a save.

“Well,” he flounders, and then sighs, apparently giving her the round. “Yes. It is.”

She examines him subtly before continuing. “I’m only a few years older than Amy, you know.”

The reminder doesn’t throw him off the way she expects it to. He only shrugs. “You’re not,” he disagrees. Her questioning expression causes his walking to slow to a halt. She turns to face him; his stare explores her. He says, “I realize how this sounds, but I – feel like I’ve known you for a very, very long time. Like you’ve been scattered throughout my life and I couldn’t see it until now.”

Her lips part. _I have known you my entire life,_ she wants to say; _I’ve known your stories and I’ve shared your pain, your journey, your love; it isn’t just you; oh, please, give me this one thing._

She only says, gaze flicking between his eyes, “I feel like that, too.”

She steps closer to him; the air is warmer around the perimeter of his body.

He repeats an earlier sentiment. “I’d like to know more about you, Clara.”

Her heel catches on the uneven pavement, but his hand is around her waist, steadying her. His voice shoots straight into her veins. She feels drugged, staring into his eyes, their colour cracked like ice. Her fingers curl against his chest, gripping his jacket automatically, keeping him close.

She doesn’t know what makes her do it: the lights glinting across the river, the dazzling brilliancy of the full moon, the sonata playing around her head like a carousel. She confides, “I’m bossy and I always have to be in control. I hate being alone. My biggest fear is getting lost. And I think I fancy you.”

It’s clear that whatever road he’d been expecting the conversation to take, it wasn’t this one – he looks at her, pupils expanding until she’s convinced she can see the night sky in them, stars flickering. They’re pressed together. He doesn’t let her go.

He smiles slowly, tenderly. His fingers trace across her cheekbone and underneath her chin, tilting her head. She’s not sure she’s breathing.

He says, “Bossy and control issues. Is that all?”

His teasing tone brings a grin to her face. He’s drawing near to her. She replies lightly, “I decided I needed a flaw.”

His mouth hovers just above hers and she swallows, tongue darting out to wet her lips.

“It’s a shame,” he says, voice sinking like lead, intense. She can feel space descending down upon them.

She exhales. “What is?”

His palm cups her cheek, thumb stroking against her skin. “That you failed,” he tells her softly. He struggles between making poetry out of her body and telling her the truth: it’s a difficult combination, needing her to know and needing it to be beautiful. He confesses, abandoning all pretense, “I think you’re perfect.”

She kisses him; she can’t _not._

She lifts herself onto her toes, trusting his arms to hold her, and carefully grazes her lips across his own: he responds instantly, fingers spread against her lower back, mouth hesitant but unwilling to pull back. He touches her like glass, delicately and gently, as if she’s something he may accidentally drop and shatter; he has a list of things he refuses to lose and she’s at the top of it.

He’s uncertain at first, but her lips part, tongue sweeping against his, and it’s all the permission he needs: his fingers curl around the nape of her neck, tangling in her hair, and she gasps. Her teeth bite at his bottom lip sensually, scraping, releasing. His stomach scorches black. He can feel himself burning for her. Her eyes are heavy and hooded.

She breathes out, “Oh.”

“Clara,” he whispers.

He’s staring at her curiously, almost wonderingly; he studies her, cataloging every detail, her eyelashes casting shadows, the full red of her lips, her hair tied in braids, knotting at the back of her head; she’s gorgeous and it’s a haunting kind of beauty – he’ll lie in bed and dream about her body curling into his and the smell of her perfume, her hands wandering. It’s too much too soon. He already can’t imagine living without her.

He says nothing else. She thinks of the future. She shouldn’t be here.

It isn’t a realization that hurts her; she’s known. She’ll be decades away from him by the end of the night. She presses one last shuddering kiss to his lips and slips back onto her heels, feet steady.

“I’m sorry,” she says. She doesn’t clarify. It leaves him dangling, lost and confused, unsure where she’s leaving him.

He asks, “What for?”

She only smiles, tinged with a sadness he hasn’t seen from her before. “We should get back,” she answers instead. “They’ll be wondering where we are.”

She turns to walk away, one of her hands falling to his wrist, tugging at the sleeve of his coat.

Still. She can’t _quite_ let him go.

When she leaves, she doesn’t say goodbye.

–

Amy’s cross with her when she picks her up the next night, her eyebrows furrowed in an untrustworthy glare. Her arms are crossed. Rory hovers like he’s on the edge of breaking up a fight.

“What did you do?” Amy asks immediately, ignoring Rory’s noise of protest. She’s staring hard. “He’s been a mess since last night. What happened?”

Clara bites her lip. The information hurts her to hear. “It’s complicated,” she says. “Amy, please.”

The other girl doesn’t relent. “He was doing brilliantly, and now he isn’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Clara’s voice is a whisper. Her eyes are suddenly wet. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Amy, leave her alone,” Rory interrupts reproachfully.

Amy huffs. She seems to feel a sense of guilt when she meets Clara’s gaze and sees her visibly upset; she reaches forward like she’s going to grab her hands, and then stops, wavering.

“Hey, Clara, no,” she grumbles out reluctantly. “Don’t cry. I’m sorry.”

Clara’s fingers dig into the leather of the seat. “It’s fine,” she says. “You’re looking out for him.”

Rory leans forward hesitantly. “Did _he_ hurt _you_?”

Amy stills. It’s clear she hadn’t considered that option, but Clara eases her worry. “No,” she says firmly. “No, it’s – it’s my fault.” She swallows. “It’s just complicated.”

“You’ll make it right.” Rory’s smile is sure and genuine. “You’ll see. He’ll forgive you.”

But forgiving isn’t the issue. Forgetting is. Because the time will come when she’ll have to move on, and she doesn’t think he’s something she’ll ever come back from.

–

He’s drunk when she finds him sitting in the garden, feet kicked up on the table and hands crossed over his chest. He barely looks at her. She lowers herself into the chair beside him and doesn’t speak, gauging his mood; she’s seen him pleasantly tipsy, but the way his posture thickens alerts her to the severity of alcohol soaking up his bloodstream.

His mouth is pressed into a thin line. _Oh;_ he’s angry with her.

She can’t blame him. Stones skip in her stomach, rippling wildly. She wishes she could kiss him again.

But there’s a part of him unwilling to share his resentment, because when he finally meets her eyes, they burn in a frustrated hollowness. The atmosphere is tense. Her tongue presses against her bottom row of teeth.

He says blankly, “Why are you here, Clara?”

She picks up on it. He isn’t asking her why she’s there in the garden with him. He’s asking her why she’s there at all.

When she doesn’t reply, he presses on: “Why do you keep coming back? Why is it only _me_ you come back to? Why did you… _kiss_ me, and then act like you never wanted to see me again?”

“Because it would be easier if I didn’t.” She’s suddenly glaring fiercely at her hands, unshed tears in her eyes. “You think this is – do you honestly think I _want_ this?” She covers her face, nails digging into her scalp. “It’s been two _weeks._ It’s been two weeks and I’m in _love_ with you, and you have _no idea_ how hard this is for me.”

Though the admission affects him at first, he reigns it in and refuses to give up his position. “Well, I’m sorry,” he says coldly. “I didn’t realize being in love with me was such a _dreadful_ thing.”

Her stare whips to him, maddened and disbelieving, and all at once he understands he’s missed whatever point she’s attempting to make. She whispers harshly, “You _idiot._ ”

He feels like a scolded child, but they’re in too deep to back out now. “Am I wrong?” He challenges, already knowing he is. “Explain it to me, then. Go on. Tell me.”

She stands on her feet, apparently unable to contain her emotion. She faces him, fingers clenched into fists at her sides. He fully expects her to slap him, but her breath comes out in a choked sob and she tells him, “You don’t want me.”

Her words settle against him, and his original anger strikes back, rapid and quick as ever. His boots hit the floor and he towers over her. “I don’t want _you?_ ” He repeats incredulously, looking her dead in the eye. A tear spills down her cheek. He swallows, jaw tightening. “Let me get this straight: you think,” he says, emphasizing every syllable, “that I don’t _want you._ ”

She’s firm, even as her voice cracks. “You don’t.”

“You—” He’s outraged, unable to comprehend wherever the hell she’s getting her moronic notions from. “You _silly, ridiculous_ girl; you are absolutely – how can you be so _stupid_ for someone so clever—”

Her arms are crossed over her body; she looks miserable, lower lip in a pout, eyes puffy and red. She crumples at the insults and a surge of regret shudders through him, but she’s so—

“I know,” she murmurs brokenly, “I know, I’m an idiot, I get it—”

“No.” His hands cups her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. He wipes away the wetness on her cheeks with his thumbs. He inhales steadily, calming himself, and says: “You’re fucking _mad_ if you think I don’t want you. If you think I don’t love you.”

She freezes entirely, her mouth slightly open, looking like it’s physically impossible for her to believe the words coming from low in his throat. She hiccups once. He thinks she is more beautiful than he has ever seen her.

She tries to shake her head, like she’s going to continue arguing with him, and he doesn’t have the patience: “Shut up,” he breathes against her lips, and then he is kissing her, fingers curling around the back of her neck and twisting through strands of brown hair. It’s nothing like their first kiss, which had been sweet and almost innocent along the riverbank; it’s unattended passion and heavy urgency, his tongue sweeping against hers, teeth skimming across her bottom lip, nipping, sucking; she inhales sharply, nails cutting roughly into his shirt.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts, but he can’t seem to stop; she tastes like pages he’s yet to write, strawberry cordial and smoke and seasalt; she finally pulls away, panting, allowing him to hold her weight.

He won’t give her the opportunity to change her mind. His lips find her ear.

“Give me a week,” he murmurs, desperate to prove her wrong. “Give me a week and I’ll show you.” He nudges her nose with his and kisses her again, deep and slow. “Clara.”

The sound of her name coming out of his mouth renders her incapable of saying no. She buries her face into his jacket, just below the crook of his neck. His arms envelope her.

“Okay,” she whispers, voice muffled. “Okay.”

–

They plan for the following Sunday. It turns out to be perfect timing, as George is taking the kids to the countryside for the next week and won’t be home to notice her absence anyway. She’s been remarkably good about avoiding any suspicion from him, even though Angie and Artie have started developing theories about where she runs off to at night; _Have you got a boyfriend, Clara,_ Angie accuses, but George thankfully dismisses them, shaking his head and mumbling about _children’s imaginations, honestly._

She packs a bag, careful not to bring anything that may be considered too advanced or otherworldly, and thunderstorms are striking inside of her stomach; it’s only been three days and she’s mortifyingly nervous to see him again. All he’d told her was to look nice. She wears a red dress she’d bought at a vintage shop the afternoon before and curls her hair, winding it up delicately at the back of her head.

The Doctor is the one who picks her up at midnight. His eyes drop to her legs and travel slowly up, taking in every inch of her, his lips parted unknowingly.

He says, “Do you remember what I told you? That second night.”

As if she could forget. “I felt like the first beautiful thing you’d ever seen.”

He admires her again, gaze falling to her hands, her hips, the curve of her collarbone.

He says, “I’ve changed my mind.”

“What?”

There’s a glint in his eye. “You aren’t the first. You’re the only. The only beautiful thing.” His lips are upturned. “And all the rest? Try too hard.”

She laughs. “What a line.”

“You bring them out in me.”

But he’s sincere and her heart pounds loudly in her throat, dimming her smile from humourous to bashful; he’s quickly learning which buttons to press to keep her falling. She drops her chin, line of vision settling on the floor; it’s too early in the night to give herself away.

He’s having none of that. He says easily, “I missed you.”

She harrumphs under her breath, as far from immune to him as she can possibly be. She shoots him a look, mouth in a half-tilt.

She murmurs back, rolling her eyes, “I missed you, too.”

She thinks she’ll let him have that one.

–

He doesn’t tell her where he’s taking her, and is insistent she keep her eyelids shut as she steps out of the car. She walks unevenly forward, his hands covering her eyes from behind, her back pressed against his chest. Her fingers curl around his wrists. She can feel his mouth beside her ear. “Ready?” He asks, and steps away. “Open.”

Her eyelids flutter. The Eiffel Tower stands in front of her, eminent, tall and impressive at the peak of its grandeur. She feels herself smiling. She says, “Oh, aren’t _you_ dazzling.”

“I try.” He’s smirking at her. “Come on.”

He starts walking towards the lifts, but she doesn’t move, staring at him in bafflement – he’s the one who brought her; he should know. “It’s closed at this hour.”

“I pulled a few strings,” he replies, winking charmingly. He offers her his arm. “Shall we?”

It takes her a moment of comprehension, and he watches the glittering of lights appear in her eyes; her hand wraps around his. “How about that,” she says knowingly. “Are you trying to impress me?”

He glances at her, unperturbed. “Why, is it working?”

“Maybe.”

He’s teasing. “Then maybe.”

She rolls her eyes, smiling. The man operating the lift shakes the Doctor’s hand, opening the doors to let them in. She steps close to him. He allows his hand to fall against the small of her back. Her fingers clutch the front of his coat without her realizing it as the cage they’re in begins to move; he attempts to get her attention. “Something wrong?”

“Is it safe?” She questions, looking down while they rise. He chuckles.

“I’ll protect you,” he promises, tone clearly humouring her.

“You will not,” she says, mouth upturned. “If this breaks, I doubt it’ll matter.”

“So we’ll die together.”

It slips out without thinking about it. “You’re ever the romantic.”

She pauses; the exchange sounds familiar. She’s suddenly experiencing a sense of deja-vu. She shifts, flexing her fingers against his chest, looking up at him. He smiles at her, thumb and index catching her chin, tilting her head. Her lungs skitter and stop. She knows – she knows exactly what he’s going to—

“My dear,” he murmurs gently, “spending my last moments with you would make any death worthwhile.”

Her gaze flicks between his eyes; there are blackbirds singing in the cage of her ribs. She lifts herself onto her toes after a moment’s hesitation and ghosts her lip across his, testing the line, how far he’s willing to go again; he kisses her back, so softly she’s not sure they’re even touching at all.

There’s a pause for breath, and then—

She kisses him like she was born to, like every aspect of her life has lead up to her getaway in Paris, to the old car rumbling around the fountain at midnight, to this leak in time; her mouth parts against his and her tongue brushes over his bottom lip, and his fingers are in her hair, holding her to him. Her cheeks are red. The lift stops.

He pulls away, still cradling her face in his hands. She can’t decipher the glint in his eyes, but she’s conflicted, her heart sawing itself in two; he _has_ someone else, a girl he’s yet to write four books about, a girl who—

The doors open, and she’s met with the sight of a table and two chairs lit by candlelight waiting on the deck, overlooking the glimmering, golden city; her pupils are wide, awed. She steps out, heels clicking against the flooring, breath stuck as if it’s caught in a trap.

He moves beside her. He whispers, “What d'you think?”

She turns to face him, undeniable recognition dawning over her. This city, her time, his written words; it’s all happening _now,_ it’s not a past event she’s meant to passively stand by and witness, it's—

_Oh._

“ _Oh,_ ” she says breathlessly, suspended in a state of perpetual disbelief. “It’s me. It’s _me._ ”

He smiles, placing a palm against her cheek, stroking the skin there. “It’s you,” he tells her, voice raw and deep, on the verge of giving up. “It’s you, Clara.”

–

He writes about this in his second book; about the delicacy of wings fluttering over fire, each spark creating a reaction so manic and unbearable that it isn’t flying anymore, it’s pounding, beating – he says he can feel his bones burning under a full moon atop the Eiffel Tower, and that not even the location manages to rival the beauty of her smile below the glimmering lights.

He writes about how he takes her home, and the practiced way she falls against his bedsheets without ever having been with him before; he recalls the path of his lips and his fingers skating over the lines of her ribs, his mouth at the hollows of her hips, dragging across her navel and low. Her fingernails dent his shoulder blades, digging in as she gasps into the sweltering night air.

He writes about how he thinks Paris was built from the idea of her pulsing against him, coming in waves, about the hair sticking to her forehead messily and the sheen of sweat below her breasts, the salt on her skin like the ocean is pouring out of her, and her body draping over his lazily after.

He writes about how it feels to have a beating heart.

–

When Clara wakes up in the morning, the first thing she feels is his mouth dipping along the curve of her spine, counting her vertebrae with kisses. She feels him everywhere, all over her, like the sex was searing, binding. She blinks against the light. His sheets are deep blue and she imagines she’s floating.

He murmurs into her skin, “Good morning,” lips pressing against the dimples of her lower back.

She smiles, ticklish, and reaches for him. He falls back beside her, heads sharing the same pillow. His smile is gentler than she’s ever seen it when he looks at her.

She says, “Good morning.”

His happiness is so obvious, effervescent and bubbly, that it makes her want to cry – it’s such a shift from the lonely man she’d spoken to for hours, sitting in Donna’s garden; he seems ten years younger, the lines of his face soft.

And all at once, she starts to laugh and doesn’t stop; his expression turns to one of amusement.

“What is it?” He asks, feeling the vibrations from his hand still resting over her spine. “Have you gone mad, Clara?”

“Mad?” She manages to repeat, giggling.

“Mad with love,” he says, grinning. He thinks he’s so clever.

She buries her face in his pillow, fingers curling around the fabric. Her smile is wide when she lifts her head again, meeting his eyes.

She says, “I gave you a week. It took you one night.”

He crinkles his nose. “Truth be told, I thought you’d be harder to impress.”

She smacks him lightly. “Oi. I am. You know the sex? Definitely mediocre. You’ll have to try again.”

He snorts, temple resting against his palm. “Oh, I will, will I?”

“Yes.”

“Starting when?”

“Now. You can try again starting now.”

He laughs and she sits up, leaning over him; her hands cup his face and her lips drop down to his. She nudges him onto his back, kissing him forcefully. He acquiesces, fingers low on her hips and digging in. She straddles his waist and smirks.

“I’m the boss,” she declares, her eyes glittering dangerously.

“You’re the boss,” he agrees, and he wants nothing to change ever again for the rest of his life.

–

She catches him in a room that looks like an office later that evening, fresh out of the bath, towel tucked around her body tightly. He’s bent over a typewriter and his fingers are moving furiously, and he’s wearing glasses, which somehow makes him infinitely more attractive.

The floorboards creak underneath her weight. He turns in his chair, peering at her from over the rims, and smirks at her attire.

“Insatiable,” he says fondly. “Feel better?”

“Sore, actually,” she replies, enjoying the way his eyes darken. She glances at his desk, padding over. “What are you doing?”

He rubs the back of his head sheepishly, but there’s no use hiding it now. “I’ve begun writing again,” he reveals, ears turning red. “I started…a few weeks ago.”

She understands immediately that by _a few weeks_ he means _the night I met you,_ but she doesn’t laugh; she stares at the pages on his desk wonderingly, fingers reaching out.

She skims across her name. It’s strange, knowing she’s already read her own history, though she’s never seen it in this light; he’s watching her nervously, waiting for her reaction. Her other hand comes to rest on the top of his head; his arm curves around her waist.

She beams at him. “See,” she says lightly, “I told you you’d manage it.”

He tugs her onto his lap and she curls up against him, smiling kindly. He presses their foreheads together. Her eyelids flutter closed.

“I could write before you,” he acknowledges, “but _fuck_ , if it isn’t a hell of a lot easier now that you’re here.”

–

On the fourth night, there’s a huge party thrown last-minute at Donna’s; Ten and Rose have gotten engaged, and it’s something nobody can skip celebrating: the Doctor says he can’t remember a time when they weren’t together, and they all saw this coming, but it’s still good to see, regardless.

The minute they arrive at the party, they’re immediately whisked in different directions; Jack drags the Doctor off, slapping him on the back and shouting something about a glass of bourbon, and Amy’s voice is suddenly directly in Clara’s ear.

“Interesting rumours floating about lately,” Amy announces mischievously, linking her arm innocently through Clara’s, strolling casually towards the back of the room.

Clara follows obediently, clouded in confusion. “What sort of rumours?”

Amy’s smirk is daunting. “Oh, something about the Doctor giving you a private tour of the Eiffel Tower,” she says dismissively, and Clara blanches. “Quite a grand gesture, if you ask me, but you know how this lot can let their stories get away from them.”

Clara shifts guiltily, her gaze automatically flicking to the man standing directly across the room from them. They’re close to the library; the light from the garden trickles through the windowpanes. Amy senses the motion and stops walking, dropping Clara’s arm.

“I _knew it,_ ” she hisses gleefully. “He really did do all that, didn’t he?”

There’s no point; Clara’s only choice is giving up. She grimaces and says, “Okay, yes.”

“What’s the frown about?” Amy pries, seemingly put out. “Was it rubbish?”

“ _No_ , no, it’s not that,” Clara disagrees vehemently, shaking her head. “I – didn’t want everybody to know.”

Amy shrugs, scanning the room casually. “They don’t. Not officially, at least,” she comforts. “And nobody believes writers, anyway.” There’s a pause; the crowd moves around them, paying no attention to the girls whispering in the corner. She pushes, “So what was it _really_ like?”

Clara involuntarily grins; as desperately as she wants to keep it a secret, it’s been aching her to talk about. “Truth be told, it was the best night of my life,” she replies, smiling widely. “I’ve been staying with him since, actually.”

Amy gasps. “In his _flat_?” She exclaims. On Clara’s look of confusion, she explains, “I’ve never been inside – he doesn’t invite us over. Blimey, what’s it like?”

It’s not hard to believe. Clara makes a face. “Blue,” she says decidedly. “It’s very blue. But it suits him.”

They both stand together, peering over at the man. There’s a silence between them punctuated only by the chatter of the guests. Amy says, “So, do you _fancy_ him?”

Clara’s head whips to her. “Sorry, do I – what?” She asks, thrown off. Amy laughs.

“Oh, you don’t have to pretend,” she says wisely, rolling her eyes. “It’s _Paris_ , Clara; look around you. Age doesn’t matter, looks don’t matter – inspiration. Inspiration is what matters.”

“I’m not—” Clara attempts to protest, but trails off, unsure of where she’s about to lead herself. The Doctor’s gaze slips across the room and meet hers, and his mouth lifts in a half-smile, as if by instinct. They lock eyes for a moment or two, unable to turn away. He’s finally distracted by Rory and slips his hands in his pockets, breaking with a laugh.

Amy raises her eyebrows and whistles lowly, glancing between them.

“And you,” she finishes, “seem to inspire him in ways I’ve never seen before.”

Clara can’t respond. Her stare drops to the ground, unusually shy; she wants her smile to remain a secret. Amy grins understandingly again and walks away, leaving her to rejoin the fray. The thoughts are clashing inside of her head, at war with one another; she focuses on the pattern of the rug, swirling the champagne in her glass. A pair of boots enter her view, scuffing against the wood, and two fingers reach out and press delicately against her wrist as an accidentally intimate gesture.

“Clara?” The Doctor’s voice rings out gently. “Are you alright?”

She looks up. His expression masks concern. “I’m fine,” she assures him, noticing the way his hand slips to grasp her elbow, drawing her closer as if by some automatic response. Her cheeks are pink; she finds herself glancing behind him to see if anybody’s watching. She says, “It’s just that – I think people know.”

His eyebrows furrow, but his shoulders raise and drop the smallest fraction. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” he answers slowly. “They’re artists. They like to observe.” He pauses, studying her reaction. “Would it bother you? If they knew?”

She bites the inside of her cheek, thinking intently. It’s complicated, she wants to say; I’m not even from this time, I’ve built an entire life nearly a hundred years from now, but I’ve read your books, I know who I am to you, even if I don’t quite know what happens, and _it’s complicated—_

His eyes are sweet, focused. She presses her palm against the side of his jaw, thumb stroking just below his cheekbone. His hand falls to her lower back. They’re already too close. She doesn’t mean physically, either – she means _close_ :she’s familiar with the deep blue of his bedsheets, he knows how she takes her tea in the mornings, and she shivers at the way his muscles move underneath his skin. So, _maybe_ she’s woken up in his flat once, or twice, or every day for the past week.

She’s forging excuses from across the universe. It’s not that complicated.

The decision’s been made for her; it was made the moment she was born. He’s waiting carefully for her reply. She exhales in a smile and stands on her toes, fingers digging into his shoulder to steady herself, and brushes her lips against his, delicately and deliberately. He doesn’t hesitate to meet her, arms wrapping around her waist in response.

It’s not a quick kiss, or hidden between lines and shadows, in corners and dulled lighting; her mouth lingers over his, and he’s careful to make it clear that his hold on her is loose. Clara hears the mumble of the crowd shifting in waves to a slightly lower volume, a flurry of manic and face-paced murmurs; Amy distinctively cracks a joke and the guests laugh, disbursing the excited tension. Clara’s heels touch the floor. His hand skims the side of her face tenderly; her eyelids flutter.

He says softly, “Clara.”

She looks up at him through her eyelashes. She’s still blushing, but she waves him off. “Oh,” she answers, forcing casualty, “better to clear up any speculation, I think.”

He’s smiling. He runs a hand through his hair boyishly, ruffling it. And then, it’s as if he can’t help himself: his fingers curl underneath her jaw, tilting her chin up, and he’s kissing her again.

She has to appreciate the solidity of the motion, and the certainty of his body; she _knows_ how they’ve lived their lives for this moment, and every moment to come – the universe has conspired for them, wringing its hands, waiting with baited breath.

He asks quietly, “What changed your mind?”

The corners of her mouth pull up in a way he can only describe as humourous omniscience; it’s like there’s a joke he’s not in on yet, but will be. She straightens the lapel of his coat affectionately.

She says, breathless in wonderment, “Oh, the amount of things that had to happen in order for me to be standing here at all.”

–

Rose approaches her after. “It’s my engagement party,” she says, “and you two _still_ manage to make it all about you.”

Clara shifts guiltily, flustered. “I’m so sorry, Rose,” she apologizes profusely. “I promise it wasn’t intentional.”

Rose laughs. “Oh, Clara, I’m kidding,” she replies gracefully. “Has he run off on you, then?”

Clara smiles, nodding behind Rose’s shoulder. “I think Amy’s got him now.”

“Good,” Rose says quietly, her mouth upturned; her expression is kind, appreciative. Her fingers find Clara’s wrist, and then she pulls her forward, hugging her. “I wanted to say – thank you.”

Clara feels bewilderment seeping out of her. “Have I done something?”

Rose leans back, hands still resting on Clara’s shoulders. She says, “We love him, you know. We truly, honestly do.”

 _Oh._ Her throat closes up painfully. “I know.”

“He’s been so alone for so long,” Rose continues, her voice soft, “and he didn’t deserve that.” Her eyes get a far-off look. “He pushed us all away, in the beginning.”

“Artists,” Clara offers. “It’s a good thing you’re all so bloody stubborn.”

Rose’s smile appears again, real and bright. “We did what we could,” she affirms. “But you’ve done more for him in three weeks than some of us have done in three _years._ ” She pauses, allowing the weight of it to sink in. “So thank you.”

When he returns to her later, all she wants to do is curl up in his arms and pretend she’ll never have to leave, because she’s getting to the point where she feels like she won’t be able to anyway.

–

The night before she’s due to go home, he says, “You’re leaving in a week.”

They’re lying in bed, entwined together underneath his deep blue sheets. His fingers are running gently through her hair, untangling the knots. The reminder feels like a droplet of water creating rings in her stomach. She hums noncommittally, hoping he’ll let it go; she’s not sure she can talk about it now.

“I know,” is all she says.

He’s silent for a moment. “I was thinking.”

“Yes?”

“I could come with you.”

The bombshell drops, and it’s not at all the one she expects. _Oh, shit._ It tugs at her heart that he’s asking to come _with_ her, rather than asking her to stay: it’s selfless dedication, and she doesn’t deserve it; oh, fuck, she doesn’t deserve anything close to it. He’s been so open with her, so truthful, and all she’s done is deceive him.

She feels suddenly ill. She can’t lie to him anymore.

She sits up, shifting out of his embrace; he follows, concerned.

“Clara?” He asks. “What’s wrong?”

She bites on her bottom lip until it hurts, cracking; the tears are coming. She’s so ashamed of herself; so disgusted. She can hardly look at him.

She whispers, “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

His palm presses against the ridges of her spine. “What?” He questions, a little forcefully: it hits her that he’s scared. “What haven’t you told me?”

She shuts her eyes tightly. “You’re going to think I’m mental.”

She shifts the topic onto herself, and it eases his fear slightly. “I already think that,” he answers lightly, and then there’s a pause. “Tell me, Clara.”

She takes a shuddering breath. “I’m really not from around here,” she says carefully, “and I don’t mean – a different city, or a different country. I mean…a different _time._ ”

He doesn’t speak for a moment. “I don’t understand.”

“We’re in Paris, and the year is 1920,” she states. “But when I go home…I’ll be going back to the year 2014.”

It’s clear his first instinct is to laugh, but the second she hears the sound it destroys her: the tears leak out and she can’t stop them, sobbing into her arms. She pulls her knees up to her chest, still half-swathed in his sheets, and everything comes pouring out of her.

“I’m sorry,” she cries, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think it was _me,_ in your books, I thought it was someone else, and then – that night at the Tower, and you – and I _knew,_ but I’ve got – family, and a job, and—”

He gathers her into his arms, smoothing her hair away from her face, plainly baffled and probably worried about her mental state. She can’t blame him: she would be, too. He rocks her. “Shh, Clara, shh,” he murmurs, trying to calm her down. “What do you mean you _knew_?”

She knows she’s a mess, but she can’t seem to bring herself together. “I’ve read your books,” she confesses. “The first night we met. I said _books._ I recognized Jack, and River, and Rose – I’ve seen them in photographs. I knew Amy and Rory would be okay.”

“Okay.” He’s struggling to comprehend. “Okay. _Books._ What about my books? You said – the night on the Tower, you knew. How did you _know_?”

She knows he’s gotten this far. She whispers, “You write about me.”

It’s the test: to him, it’s barely been written, but she’s memorized every word.

He challenges quietly, “Tell me what I wrote about that night.”

She stares into his eyes, praying he’ll find the truth in them. Her lip is swollen and painful. She can feel her blood throbbing.

“Butterflies in summer,” she murmurs plainly. A tear drips from her chin onto his arm. “Your bones on fire. Finally having a beating heart.”

As general as it is, it’s enough; he inhales sharply, unsteady. He mulls it over, and she can sense it creating a picture for him: there’s a lot he can’t deny. She’s always known more than she’s let on.

He asks waveringly, “But how did you – _get_ here?”

“Amy,” she says miserably. “I was out for a walk one night and the car just came – trudging up the road. I thought they were going to a themed party; I didn’t know they were _actually_ from the twenties.”

He’s stroking her back again, fingers brushing over her like paper; she feels infinitely more fragile to him now than she ever has, her skin bare and her fingers clutching him like a lifeline. He presses his lips to her hair, and then the shell of her ear, her temple, her cheekbone, her nose, her jaw, her mouth.

“It’s okay,” he utters, “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

Her breathing regulates slowly, aided by the comfort of her body tucked against his, and lessening of the fear that he’s going to hate her for this. She’s almost drifting off half an hour later when his voice breaks through the haze in her mind.

“This is your fault,” he whispers, dropping a kiss across the curve of her neck; her collarbone feels damp. “You were born late.”

–

He kisses her goodbye, a strange finality hovering on his lips.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” she promises, her hand placed flat against the echo of his heart. “We’ll talk about it then.”

His eyes have regained that desolate, hollow look.

He says, “You feel like the last beautiful thing I’ll ever see.”

She’s still crying when the Maitlands arrive home.

Nobody asks her what’s wrong.

–

She talks to her dad on the phone; this double life is tearing her apart.

She tells him, “If I went away, I’d miss you. I’d miss you so much.”

He asks, “Are you happy, Clara?”

She swallows. “I used to be,” she confesses into the phone. “I have been, and now I’m not, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Do what makes you happy,” he says. “That’s all that’s worth anything, really.”

When she hangs up, she’s no closer to an answer than she was before.

–

Amy and Rory pick her up that night.

She crumples the second she gets into the car, and the story spills out of her; it’s clear they think she’s insane, at first, and Rory seriously considers having her institutionalized, but she recites paintings Amy’s never put on display, and even two she’s in the middle of painting. She’s done her research. Some of it.

They can’t argue with her after that.

“You can’t leave him,” Amy says immediately, jumping to the Doctor’s defense. “You can’t fix him and then fuck him up again.”

Her language is harsh, vulgar. To Clara, it feels like being slapped.

She says, “I don’t know what to do.”

Rory cups the side of her face. “I’m so sorry, Clara,” he says, and it takes everything in her to stop herself from crying again. “I’m so, so sorry.”

–

River and Donna are in the middle of an argument when she enters the house, but they both pause and turn to her, eyes sad and uncertain.

River says, “You’re a nice girl, Clara.” She holds a beat. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t,” she tells them honestly. “I wish I did.”

Donna replies, “Yeah.” Her smile is mournful. “That’s all anybody wants, really.”

“What is?”

“To know. To just _know._ ”

But Clara does, and it isn’t any easier.

–

The Doctor is rigid when she finds him, his face maddened and dark; she’s afraid he’s already started the process of forgetting her. His stare is brutal, savage. He reminds her of a soldier. It aches her to look at him. The space he keeps between them is a deliberate attack, a biting anger.

“Do you care about me?” He asks almost viciously, the words so strong she imagines them slicing his tongue; the sudden taste of blood is in her mouth.

She’s on the verge of tears. “You know I do.”

“You don’t walk out.” He states the phrase with such tremendous force that she can feel her bones shuddering under the weight. He sounds like he’s accusing her. “ _You_ said that. The second night we…talked. You don’t walk out on the people you care about.”

“It’s not the same!” She argues vehemently, trying to explain. “It’s not just _you_ I have to think about! I’m not from here! I’m not from this time, from this city – I have an entire _life,_ and you—”

“So what am I?” He interrupts harshly. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides; she knows it’s to stop himself from reaching out and touching her. “You have a life. What am I?”

Her heart battles with itself inside of her chest, scratching the surface of her veins; she wishes she could unravel them and let him read the bruises like inscriptions: _I’m so afraid; I went so long without you and I don’t know how to go back to that; I don’t know if I have a choice._ She steps forward waveringly, carefully; he’s watching her and the blue of his irises is dark, wounded.

Her hand stretches out, and he flinches the moment her fingertips brush his face, but there’s an ache to the way he leans into the feel of her skin instinctively. She cups his cheek, wet lines tracing a path down her jaw. Her voice cracks when she speaks. “You’re the biggest part of my life. But you aren’t the only part.”

Her hands drop to his sides, skimming his arms, finally circling around his body when he doesn’t protest. Her forehead presses against his chin. It’s like she’s begging him to kiss her, to understand.

“Please,” she whispers. “ _Please_.”

Out of everything, thisis what breaks him.

It takes a forced exhale, sounding like a sob, and then he surrounds her: his fingers tangle in her hair, other arm wrapping around her waist. He’s as close to her as he can possibly get, his face buried in the crook of her neck. She feels like an ocean. He wants to drown in her. He wants to forget how it feels to breathe.

“What am I supposed to do?” He murmurs, defeated. “Tell me, Clara. Tell me.”

She runs her nails across his scalp, embracing him. There’s a dampness on her collarbone. She hates herself in that moment; she’s so selfish, so _unbelievably_ selfish – she knew what she was getting into, she knew his past, and she knew the one thing he needed was someone to love him and not leave. Well, she’s only doing half of that, and it’s not enough.

“Time,” she says softly, swaying on her feet, hoping the steady motion calms him down. “Just give me a little time. Okay?”

She feels him swallow, his throat dry and cracked. He lifts his head slowly.

“Okay,” he echoes, and she’s never seen his eyes so vulnerable. “Okay.”

Clara does the only thing she can think of to ease the pain: She takes him home.

–

He makes love to her carefully, mapping out every inch of her skin like she’s a lesson he’s learning. Her skeleton conforms to the lines of his palms. He’s a fortune-teller. Her bones are saying, _yours, yours, yours._ His mouth is hot over her sternum, her navel; an explosion is building low in her belly. Her fingers tug on his hair. His tongue sweeps across the insides of her thighs, tasting the sticky, sweltering heat; her nails trails scars across his back. He fucks her slowly, sinking into her like her body is the last one he’ll ever touch.

And if she leaves, maybe it will be; the thought haunts her. She doesn’t want to be a ghost.

 _Impossible girl,_ he exhales into her ear, her shuddering violent against him. _I don’t need a ghost story. I need a love story._

–

Impossible girl. The phrase sticks in her mind, torturing her.

It’s Angie who sets the memory off, complaining loudly in the living room about how _bored_ she is, and how _stupid_ all the museums are, when—

“Angie,” Clara interrupts suddenly. “'The Impossible Girl.’ What’s that from?”

Angie looks at her like she’s developed a physical defect, her stare almost frightened.

“That’s the painting,” she tells Clara slowly, as if she’s talking to an infant. When Clara clearly doesn’t get it, she prompts, “Of the woman who looked like you?”

She’d forgotten. She’d brushed it aside, unknowing, uncaring, and now—

There’s a greater force that pushes Clara to visit the museum that day; she weaves through throngs of people, ignoring sculptures and statues of marble until she arrives at the impressionist painters. There’s an entire gallery of Amy’s work, and it brings her a fierce sense of pride and also one of awe – there are several scenes Clara recognizes; the group of them at the pub, a party at Donna’s, and then there's—

Paintings of scenes that mean nothing to anybody else in the entire museum except for her.

Her and the Doctor walking along the riverbank; the Doctor kissing her in front of the crowd, blurry and shadowed, but beautiful; and then—

Her. Just her; it’s a portrait of her sitting alone, smiling at something seemingly just behind the artist’s point of view. She takes in the detail, struck. There’s a shiny gold plaque to the right of the painting; she leans forward and reads:

“ _The Impossible Girl._ Amelia Pond, circa 1920.

An inscription on the back of the canvas states:

_To my friend, the Doctor, and his long-awaited,_

_well-deserved happiness. Your reason has found_

_you at last._ ”

She laughs, tears in the corners of her eyes; a few people give her odd looks, and then double-take, glancing between her and the portrait. There’s nothing to be done.

Truthfully, she’s known it all along – she _belongs_ with them. They’d all felt it, accepted her wordlessly, cared for her. She thinks of Rory’s sweet eyes, Amy’s laughter, Rose’s fingers covering hers. Her choice was set in stone the moment she stepped into the pub and met his steel-blue eyes across the room. Her passion is living in the same artists she’s been spending the last month around. She thinks of Jack and his tendency to spout imagery over a bottle of wine; River and her straight-forward, blunt style of honesty; Rose and her grace, her fragility, love and loss between line breaks.

She sits on the bench, hiding her face in her hands.

“Okay,” she says out loud, and then drops her arms, staring again at the painting in front of her. “Okay.”

–

She arranges it all before she returns.

George and the kids have begun packing up the house; she boxes the things she doesn’t need and requests to have them shipped home. She sits him down.

“So,” she begins, “I’ve met someone.”

George sighs. “I figured you might have.”

She grins nervously. “Obvious, is it?”

“Terribly.” He offers her a smile. “You’re staying, aren’t you?”

“I am,” she says, and the idea alone makes her happier than she can ever remember being. “I am.”

Angie isn’t surprised; Artie congratulates her nicely.

“Do me a favour,” she says. “Go back to the museum. Go on a guided tour of Amelia Pond’s work.”

“Why?” Angie asks, taken aback.

“I suspect you’ll learn something,” she answers vaguely, and that’s all.

–

Jack and River are the ones who pick her up, oddly enough; Jack shrugs and says, “We wanted a turn.”

She laughs, and there’s nothing left to lose. They both eye her suitcase interestedly.

“Well,” Clara says, “you’re the last.”

River raises an eyebrow carefully. “The last what?”

Jack says, “Do you mean—”

“I’m not coming back,” she states, her mouth curving. “I’m staying.”

Jack leans forward and embraces her. River is smiling gently over his shoulder.

“Oh, God,” he breathes out. “ _Thank_ you.”

–

The Doctor’s in a state when she reaches him; they drop her off at his flat, and she finds him inside, pages of his novel spread angrily across his desk. She drops her bag next to his sofa. He doesn’t see.

“Doctor,” she calls softly, alerting him. He spins around.

“You should have left,” he says blankly. “Weren’t you leaving?”

“I was,” she agrees. “But I’m here.”

She sounds like she’s saying goodbye. He feels like he’s carving out the inside of his chest. His fingers crumple a sheet of paper.

She asks, “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t look at her, but there’s something building inside of him, and she needs it to erupt before she can tell him anything. The anxiety tears at her. He’s silent for a minute.

“Writers.” He spits it out like it’s a curse. “All we have are words and words and words. I used to think that finding the right words was the most important aspect of being a writer, but I was wrong.” He pauses. “It’s honesty. It’s unabridged emotion; passion, anger, fear, love. It’s having something true to write _about._ ”

She can’t stop herself from interrupting. “And you’ve found that?”

He finally looks her in the eye. “Oh, Clara, I’m not a clever writer,” he confesses achingly, hands spread in front of him. “Butterflies in summer,my bones on fire – they’re not deep, intricate designs meant to be analyzed and understood; they’re _you._ They’re honest and unguarded and you. It’s August and when you smile, I swear I can feel wings beating against the walls of my stomach to my heart, like they’re taking flight. Everywhere you touch me feels like I am burning – your skin underneath my fingertips, your lips on mine, the way your body fits inside my arms. This book – and every book I’ll write after, I’m sure – is a dedication of love to _you._ ”

She’s stunned into silence by the declaration; her lips are parted on the inhale of breath now trapped in her lungs. The lines of her veins in her arms look like tree branches, growing and twisting; she images him as the sun, as if her heart needs him there to beat.

“You,” he repeats, and she senses, somewhere, that whatever he’s about to tell her is the hardest to admit of all, and it’s the only thing she needs from him. His voice is raw and genuine. He says quietly, “ _You_ are the reason.”

“I’m the—” She starts and then stops, almost in tune to her pulse struggling in her wrist. “Oh,” she says, understanding. Her eyes are wide. Amy’s plaque gleams in the corners of her mind. “ _Oh._ ”

_I have not yet discovered a reason to live, but I’d like to think that one is out there, waiting for me to find it._

He stands still, hovering in uncertainty. He’s given her everything he has and he doesn’t know if it’s enough, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

She reaches forward, her fingers brushing his cheeks; she cups his face in her hands and pulls him down until his forehead is pressed against hers. Her eyelids flutter closed. She can feel his breath on her mouth.

His arms slip around her waist after a moment, in unsure hesitation; she realizes he’d been preparing himself for rejection. The idea alone hurts enough that she doesn’t know how it’s an option she’d ever consider, because she _can’t –_ she can’t let him go; she barely remembers how she went this long without him. She tilts her head and her lips touch his, tenderly, preciously. She kisses him like it’s all she’s going to do for the rest of her life, and there’s a shift: his fingers splay against her lower back, pulling her close, and his mouth is all urgency and desperation over her own.

“Please,” he says between breaths, and that fact that he’s begging tells her more than anything he’s ever written in his books. “Please, Clara. Stay with me.”

She feels her heart pounding against his skin like he’s stored it inside of his own chest for safekeeping. He doesn’t know her mind’s made up; she remembers the first night, the slip of her tongue over her own desperate plea, _ask me to stay_ , and now—

She doesn’t even realize she’s crying until his thumbs are against her temples, wiping her tears away. “Yes,” she gasps, and the emotion in her voice is so strong she nearly chokes on it. “Yes. I’ll stay with you.”

His lungs exhale unsteadily in a single, euphoric laugh, and then he’s kissing her again and she can feel the world settling down around her, as if everything is finally the way it’s supposed to be.

–

Amy asks to paint her, on an early day in September, and poses her by the windowsill of the Doctor’s flat; he’s no longer strict about inviting them over. He sits behind Amy at his desk and writes. Clara’s supposed to sit still, but her gaze keeps flickering, appreciating the way his fingers tap fast against the keys. He looks up and smiles at her, and her mouth curls every so slightly, tender and beautiful.

Donna tells her later, after reading his manuscript, “Christ, does that man love you.”

The sun brushes lightly against Clara’s face, painting her skin in a golden glow.

Her lips curve up, gentle. She blinks the sky out of her eyes.

She says, “I know.”

–

“Madame,” Artie’s voice calls over the crowd. “Can you tell us about that painting, there?”

The curator follows his finger, ending in an exclamation.

“Ah, yes!” She says. “Fine eye, young man; it’s actually one of my favourites. Incredible story.”

“What’s the story?”

“As you’re aware,” the curator begins, “Paris’s Golden Age was populated by the greatest of the time – writers, artists, musicians, designers – it was the city of beauty, of inspiration. The Doctor was the most mysterious of them all. His real name has been lost to time, but his legacy remains. He wrote extensively about a girl named _Clara_ , in novels considered to mix both fiction and autobiography; her tale, however, is entirely unclear, nor does any record of her seem to exist. The only solid proof of her is this portrait by Amelia Pond, titled _The Impossible Girl,_ which she painted as a gift to the Doctor. You can see snapshots of them in other works – here, and here, for instance.” She takes a minute to point out figures in other paintings, one by one. She continues, “Judging by his books, the two were very happy together; they’re often cited as one of Paris’s most famous love stories. What happened to both of them in the end remains unknown – though most like to believe they never had an ending at all.”

Angie frowns. “What does that mean?”

She smiles. “Not everything ends,” she says wisely. “Not love. Not always.”


End file.
